


absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence

by scarlet_malfoy



Category: True Detective
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Fantasy, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2891687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlet_malfoy/pseuds/scarlet_malfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2012, Post-Carcosa. Lots of sex and past-dwelling and emotions and sex with feelings. Rust and Marty are def in love and having lots of sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence

**Author's Note:**

> Originally meant to be nothing but gratuitous porn, but accidentally wrote some Rust Cohle childhood biography stuff to go along with it, you know, since that TOTALLY fits. (Demisexual here so what else would you expect from me?) I really needed this to exist and so that's basically why I'm writing it. And it's going to be longer because since I delved into Rust's past in the middle of this sex scene now I also need to do Marty's, so there will be a Part 2 for the "completion" ahaha. 
> 
> Thank you so so much to blackeyedblonde for reading this through for me in the beginning and telling me I could make this work!!!! I might have given up on it without you <3
> 
> Title is a quote from Carl Sagan, because I love him and I guess I do mention stars just a bit.

Rust kicks his boots off noisily in the hall, and that’s what wakes Marty up.  
  
He half-opens an eye, glancing at the alarm clock on his nightstand. Half past ten. Been a couple of years since he slept so late.  
  
And where the hell is Rust coming in from?  
  
Stretching out his spine, he yawns wide and half-rolls over to Rust’s side of the bed. The cold crinkly sheets have been uninhabited for hours but are rife with the particular scent of him: Selsun Blue and green Irish Spring, mingling with his sweat and his come.  
  
The bathroom door across the hall shuts quietly. Marty knows this is just in case he might still be asleep, and he smiles a wide, self-satisfied smile, one that no one in the world has ever seen on his face. Such a small act of consideration, but to Marty, it’s everything.  
  
He hears the shower start up, and can picture Rust standing there, looking at himself in the mirror, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. All his scars are revealed as the shirt slips off his shoulders, all the scars that Marty has come to know quite personally. The Carcosa scar in particular, the one Marty caresses with just his fingertips, his breath catching whenever he’s reminded of the first time his hand found its way there.  
  
How close they’d come to missing out on each other.  
  
Thank the fucking Lord, honestly.    
  
Next, Rust would begin to unbutton his pants, and he’d step right out of them and his boxer briefs at the same time. Lastly he’d take off his socks, and then he’d stick one hand in beyond the gray-patterned shower curtain to test the temperature of the water. It wouldn’t be warm enough yet, though. Marty’s needed a new hot water heater for a couple months now.  
  
Rust would shiver, on account of it being December and all, and the fact that they hadn’t had to turn on the heat yet. Maybe today would be the day.  
  
Marty sighs, naked and half hard as he rolls all the way over onto Rust’s side of the bed, popping open his bedside drawer and digging blindly around until he finds a red and white peppermint. He sits up, pulling off the wrapping and popping it into his mouth as he untangles himself from the mess of their bedding.  
  
The wooden floor is cold against his bare feet, and he shivers himself as he enters the drafty hall. He knows Rust can hear the creaking floorboards, and so he isn’t worried about startling him as he opens the bathroom door and steps inside.  
  
It’s just as he thought. Rust is naked, leaning back casually against the sink, waiting. The only thing Marty forgot to imagine was Rust removing his hair tie. It’s long and loose, and more noticeably wavy when he has it down like this, falling around his shoulders.  
  
He doesn’t move a muscle as Marty enters, but gazes at him easy through shuttered lashes. “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, eyes drifting down to take all of Marty in for a moment before roaming back up to his eyes again. One corner of Rust’s mouth quirks upward in a smile.  
  
“Hey yourself. You should’ve woken me up. I’m in there sleeping the day away while you’re in here, looking the way you do right now.” Marty takes a couple of steps forward to close the distance between them, his hands settling low on Rust’s hips. He gently rubs his thumbs across Rust’s sharp hipbones, and he can feel his stomach muscles twitch. Marty’s come to understand just how sensitive Rust can be, literally everywhere, every last inch of him. Sometimes all Marty has to do is look at him a certain way to make him shudder. “Did you run up to the store or something?”  
  
Rust raises an eyebrow, semi-impressed at his deductive skills. “Cat needed some wet food. And we were just about out of Dawn. And garbage bags.”  
  
“Ain’t you just little Mister Homemaker, now,” Marty laughs, spitting the remainder of the mint into the trash can and shifting his hips a little to the left so that his erection is pressed flush up against Rust’s hip. He ruts against him ever so slightly, again and again, in a way that he honestly has no conscious control over.  
  
Rust’s eyes flutter shut deliciously, and he moans quiet and low in his throat. Marty’s hands slide up to rest against the small of his back as he pulls Rust more fully against him. He grins as he feels Rust growing hard.  
  
One of Marty’s hands inches up to cradle the back of Rust’s head, his fingers tangling in his hair as Rust’s arms move to encircle him. He pulls his hair, just a little, but Rust complies a lot, head tilting back readily to expose the skin of his neck.  
  
Marty leans in, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses in small semi-circles on his skin. His tongue sneaks out mid-kiss as he sucks a narrow path, and Rust’s breathing goes all shaky. Marty can feel him sinking down, leaning more and more of his weight against him.  
  
As far as Marty can tell, Rust has only ever barely been able to handle his neck being kissed like this.  
  
The mirror behind Rust is fogging up, and Marty can feel the steam from the shower billowing against his bare skin.  
  
“Want you. Want to feel you,” Rust says, his voice rumbling against Marty’s lips. Marty grins against his neck, kissing a quick line up his chin until he’s breathing quick against Rust’s mouth. Rust leans in and captures his lips without warning, and Marty feels a twinge of pleasure somewhere deep, somewhere buried within him below his navel.  
  
“Can’t you feel me?” Marty jokes, still rutting gently, toeing the line of self-control. He shifts, aligning himself so that their erections are both trapped between their stomachs.  
  
“Want to feel you inside me, Marty.” Rust’s breath hitches in his chest.  
  
Marty moans, his dick aching between them, already leaking. He reaches down to take hold of them both, and they are hot silk in his hand.  
  
“Mmm, Marty. Please…” Rust is moving his hips now too, and they slide together wetly, all magnetic friction. Marty nearly loses it then and there.  
  
With forced restraint he lets them go, but is pleased at Rust’s little sigh of protest.  
  
Marty takes Rust’s hand instead, and pulls him along behind him into the steaming hot shower. He adjusts the temperature a little bit and then turns to Rust, who’s looking a bit like a lost puppy, pulling him directly under the spray with him.  
  
They’ve done this before. A routine has already been established. Wordlessly, they fall into it.  
  
Marty washes Rust’s hair, fingertips massaging his scalp. Rust’s eyes are closed the entire time. Like a cat getting scratched, loving it and arching right into it, and nearly melting into a puddle at Marty’s feet. Marty repeats with conditioner, and then Rust does the same for him. Needless to say, it doesn’t take as long.  
  
They lather themselves up with soap, and while they usually take turns with their bare hands against the other’s skin, this time they are impatient. It’s a mutual, simultaneous act, no time to waste, and it’s hard to distinguish whether their actions are purely in interest of cleanliness or not. They are close, a little too close, and their soapy skins are slip-sliding together, and neither of them speaks.  
  
Once most of the suds have collected at the bottom of the tub, Marty takes Rust’s face in his hands and kisses him, head turning as he deepens the kiss. Rust moans into his mouth, and Marty is done waiting.  
  
He takes hold of Rust’s waist, and spins him around so that they are back to front. He pushes him forward against the far wall of the shower stall, and Rust’s hands go up and his elbows bend, bracing himself against the wall. His head hangs down between his shoulders, and Marty puts his arms around his waist from behind.  
  
His dick aligns itself perfectly, fitting snugly against Rust’s ass like it was always meant to be there, and Rust’s entire body shudders. It isn’t time for that just yet, though he wants it too, just as bad. Marty is convinced, there is nothing in the world more timeless than Rust Cohle’s ass.  
  
Marty leans into him, letting his dick slide across and past his hole, caressing his chest, one hand resting lightly on his Carcosa scar. He moves Rust’s wet hair away from the back of his neck and puts his mouth there instead, kissing and sucking and making the most endearing kind of desperate noises come out of Rust’s mouth.  
  
With one arm still holding onto Rust around his middle, Marty picks up the soap again and begins to wash Rust’s lower back, easing ever lower, taking great and deliberate care in his ministrations. He dips soapy fingers into his crevice and is rewarded with long sigh of an entirely different nature. Holding on to him tighter, he continues to wash him out, kissing the back of his neck, the arch of his back, his shoulders.  
  
Once the soap is rinsed away, Marty sets the soap aside and kisses a slow, long line down Rust’s back, making sure to touch each and every vertebrae of his spine with his tongue. And then, he kneels.  
  
Now this. This is something that Marty loves. He’s always taken great pleasure and pride in being a proper pleasurer, and he’s well aware that he has a talented tongue. Not until recently had this in particular, this going down on a man, been a viable option for him, nor had he honestly ever even considered it. Back when this thing between them was just starting up, the act had been suggested and explained to him by several websites, and the first time he’d done it to Rust, doing exactly as the instructions said—they were different for a man—he hadn’t been certain Rust would ever recover.  
  
“God, Marty… please…” Rust is nearly keening, his knees and voice shaking, audible over the sound of the pinging water droplets beating down around them. The way Rust gets, it’s like no one in Rust’s life had ever taken the time to properly pleasure him until Marty. Like he’d never known the full scope of what he could feel, despite feeling and experiencing so much in other arenas.  
  
Marty would put his mouth on him here, just like this, like he’s about to do, every day for the rest of his life if it would make Rust believe, know, understand, that it’s nothing but a privilege. Marty’s privilege, now, and no one else’s.  
  
Marty’s kneeling and his knees will probably be unhappy with him later on, but that doesn’t matter at the moment. “Hush, now,” he says, placing his hands on Rust’s ass, kneading through the tension he can feel there. “Relax. I’ve got you.”  
  
Rust makes a strangled sound as Marty leans forward, pulls him apart, and kisses him delicately between the cheeks.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The thing about Rust is, the thing he’s forgotten about himself after all that’s happened, is that he started off life as a lover.  
  
The years he’d spent with his mother were like a good dream. The darkness between the stars didn’t exist for him then, as he’d been drowned in her love since the day he was born. It’d been just the two of them. She’d taught him to speak French, and she’d taken him to Paris. They’d baked cookies. Had three Christmas mornings together. Nearly four.  
  
But something had happened, something he’d only learned in a round-about way from his father, in vague bits and pieces over the years. There’d been an accident, some kind of altercation between Rust’s mother and her brother, and afterward she hadn’t been the same. She’d come home from the hospital acting like she hadn’t known who Rust was.  
  
Rust hadn’t understood. He’d been so young. He hadn’t yet lived through anything but love.  
  
Without explanation, she’d brought him to a ramshackle assortment of rooms in the middle of nowhere, shrouded in cold and snow all year round, and she’d left him there with a man claiming to be his father, someone he’d never met before in his life.  
  
That sadistic, isolated man would have more of an impact on who Rust would one day become than he could ever admit to himself. He could feel himself drifting into it over time, into that cold, dark existence, and it scared him.  
  
So when he was old enough, he’d moved back to Texas.  
  
He’d fallen in love with Claire there, who’d been good-naturedly jaded and sarcastic when he met her. She’d always been able to make him laugh, had always been honest with him, and most importantly, she’d instilled in him that eternal dedication to always being honest with himself.  
  
And he’d loved his baby girl, of course, more than he’d expected to, more than he thought he’d ever be capable of loving another person.  
  
When she’d gone, all the light he’d managed to collect for himself had dispersed, and he wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore. He’d been honest with Claire about that, of course, and the end for them came soon after. For a long time, Rust wished she’d come back to him in spite of things, that she’d love him still, love him anyway, but she never did.   
  
Rust had come to believe that his love was a bad omen. Going by his own life experiences, based on nothing but the stone cold facts, he couldn’t quite say that he’d been as good for any of them as they’d been for him. Something was wrong with him, something deep down, untouchable, unchangeable, something that had always belonged to the dark.  
  
And then there was Marty.  
  
Marty, who chose to stick with him even after everything, who literally picked him up and carried him home from the hospital that first night.  
  
Marty, who never left him alone for a minute after Rust had been perfectly honest with him about his intentions after Carcosa. Never alone, not for months, not until Marty was certain.  
  
Rust’s taken a lot of convincing to really get into this thing with Marty. He still worries, because he can’t deny his track record, but he mostly never voices his concerns anymore. Marty reassures him daily without ever needing any prompting.  
  
Funny, Rust thinks, leaning heavily against the tiles in their shower. Right around the corner from the worst possible state of mind he might have ever been in was this little piece of heaven, just waiting for him to come out on the other side, to make it through alive.  
  
Rust is still married to the truth of all matters, and always will be. And these days, the truth is that Marty brings something out of him that maybe otherwise would have been lost for all of time. He can react honestly, he can feel everything, as long as he’s got Marty. It’s all or nothing, that’s the only way Rust has ever been able to do anything, and he realizes that’s maybe why he pushed everyone else in the world away after his first three alls had failed.  
  
This, this level of sacred and private authenticity, it’s what Rust was made for. No one in the world is ever going to know him this way ever again, and he doubts he’d actually want anyone else to.  
  
And even if they did, how could they compare to Marty Hart’s tongue?  
  
His mouth is on him now, completely encircling his hole, and a distant part of Rust wishes he had more self-control over the noises he’s making.  
  
Marty kisses gentle at first, like he’s shy or something, and Rust pushes back against his mouth. Marty makes a low humming noise of reproach in his the back his throat that Rust can feel reverberating through him, and he sucks in a sharp breath. “Fuck, Marty… come on.”  
  
Marty’s hands hold his thighs steady as he starts to kiss against him more intently. He sucks at his hole once or twice, and Rust feels Marty’s tongue dart out between his lips to lick at him. Rust’s hands start to slip along the wall and he scrambles for purchase, but there is none. If it wasn’t for Marty’s grip, for his steady weight behind him, he’d have slid down onto the floor of the tub.  
  
Rust leans his forehead against the wall when Marty’s tongue starts to probe into him, and he sighs at the feeling of being penetrated. It had honestly never happened before, not in any way, shape or form, not until Marty.  
  
He loves it, he really does. It’s not anything he would have expected of himself, but Lord help him, nearly nothing makes him feel more connected, more full, more realized.  
  
Marty’s tongue is inside of him as far as it will go, and slowly, excruciatingly slow, he drags it nearly all of the way out again, before pushing it back in. He does it again, his lips creating a perfect suction around him, and then in and out, again. And again.  
  
The first time Marty had initiated this, Rust had had his doubts, but he would have let Marty try anything, do anything to him. This had seemed so strange, so out there, even for Rust. It was a part of Rust that he’d figured would always remain private, but it seemed that where Marty was concerned, nothing would ever be private again.  
  
The palpable relief of being able to let go around someone, in all respects, in any scenario, had made his first experience with being rimmed unexpectedly emotional.  
  
It was the first moment he realized just how far he’d actually come from the closed book he was when he met Marty all those years ago. He was invested now. Everything he had was on the table. Everything.  
  
And Marty, Marty, always there, always pushing just enough, always evident, always surprising him. A constant now, always.  
  
Marty’s hand closes around Rust’s cock and he moans, head turning so that his cheek is pressing wetly against the wall. With every thrust of Marty’s tongue he strokes him, up and down, his fingers looser along his shaft and tighter as they reach his head, mechanical, like clockwork. So many ins and outs, cogs working in tandem, creating a warm sensation inside of him that’s beginning far too soon.  
  
“Mmmm, stop… don’t wanna… not yet.”  
  
Marty’s hand slows, but he still grips him, fondling him, exploring his length. His tongue slips out and Rust can feel Marty smile against him. He kisses him there one more time before pulling his face away.  
  
“Not yet, huh? You sure?” Marty’s other hand lets go of his thigh, and Rust shifts, regaining a bit of his own balance.  
  
“Mmm-hm.”  
  
Two of Marty’s fingers ghost over his hole and it makes Rust’s breath stop and start again. He swears, something about Marty, something about the freedom they have when it’s the two of them together, the way they’ve built this thing they have out of nearly nothing, still catches him off guard, makes him react to everything Marty does like it’s the first time, the last time. The only time.  
  
He’s so present it’s astounding.  
  
“You are fucking gorgeous like this, you know that?” Marty’s voice is hushed, reverent, and he circles Rust’s hole with one finger, teasing.  
  
Rust breaths in deep, then lets the air seep slowly back out of his lungs. He never knows how to respond when Marty says shit like this.  
  
Without warning Marty isn’t touching him at all anymore, and Rust pulls his face away from the wall to turn and look behind him.  
  
Marty stands—with only slight difficulty—and rises to meet him. His light blue eyes lock onto Rust’s, and a tiny shudder passes through him.   
  
“God, look at you.” Marty puts his arms around Rust from behind, rubbing his face into Rust’s long wet hair. “Let’s get you to bed where I can fuck you proper, what do you say?”  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
